


You Must Know You Are Beloved

by TheWrongShop



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Declarations Of Love, Domestic Fluff, Established Relationship, Kissing, Knitting, M/M, No Apocalypse, Set in Episodes 159-160 | Scottish Safehouse Period (The Magnus Archives)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-11
Updated: 2020-06-11
Packaged: 2021-03-03 23:14:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,289
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24653662
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheWrongShop/pseuds/TheWrongShop
Summary: Jon is a living repository of terror. A chronicle of fear and unease. He’s been bestowed ungodly powers by an omniscient fear entity, powers of Knowledge and Seeing, no less. It should, by rights, be well within his abilities to perform a simple, entirely human task like knitting his boyfriend a scarf.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Comments: 28
Kudos: 233





	You Must Know You Are Beloved

**Author's Note:**

> Title is from "Beloved" by Mumford & Sons, a song which has nothing to do with this fic other than that I listened to it while writing. I love jonmartin very very much and I think they deserve to be happy; therefore, I've decided MAG160 didn't happen and never will. Happy eternal honeymoon, boys.

Jon swears emphatically under his breath.

He is a living repository of terror. A chronicle of fear and unease. He’s been bestowed ungodly powers by an omniscient fear entity, powers of _Knowledge_ and _Seeing_ , no less. It should, by rights, be well within his abilities to perform a simple, entirely human task like _knitting_.

And yet, here he is, fingers dreadfully tangled in the soft navy blue yarn he’s been trying to wrangle into the general shape of a scarf for the better part of an hour, his lap completely blanketed in threads of the mostly unraveled skein. Jon has _tried_ to See what he’s doing wrong, and besides, he’s been carefully watching the nimble motions of Martin’s fingers on the needles for the last several days before making this secretive attempt.

All his efforts have been to absolutely no avail. He’d thought for a moment that he had managed the casting on with some semblance of dignity and been briefly, glowingly proud before a single cautious tug on the end of the yarn had revealed the structure of the thing to be more like a house of cards. It is deeply unfair, Jon thinks, that the Eye will deign to provide him with terms like _casting on_ but not the faintest impression of how to achieve it. Somewhere in the vast library of human knowledge he’s supposed to have access to, there _must_ be an _instruction manual_ of some kind. He gives another helpless little tug to the bundle of yarn wrapped around his fingers. If the people he visits in their nightmares could see him now, he thinks with some small measure of grim humor, some of their fears might be assuaged.

He sighs and unravels his latest tangled efforts to start anew. At least this is something normal to do. It demands enough of his focus that, even when Martin’s off to the shops and can’t distract him, Jon finds himself mostly unfocused on Beholding. ( _Mostly._ He doesn’t count asking the Eye for knitting lessons.) Instead, he can turn his full attention to the mess of knots in his lap, absently setting to the task of untangling while his mind reaches out beyond himself again in search of _any_ useful information.

After several more minutes of deepest concentration and only a little supernatural assistance, Jon finally has something resembling stitches knotted around his needle. He lets out a triumphant “Ha!” and grins defiantly up at the ceiling, as if taunting the Eye he imagines watches from above. A split second later, the grin drops off his face. For the first time, he becomes aware of a figure of the doorway, doing its level best to smother a smile and failing rather spectacularly. Jon meets Martin’s eye sheepishly and says, “Ah.”

“Jon,” Martin says, in the tone of someone trying _very_ hard to contain their amusement. “Are you _knitting_?”

Jon scowls and grumbles, “Trying.” His face feels rather warm, which is doubtless only adding to Martin’s glee. “How… how long have you been standing there?”

“Oh, long enough.” He’s not trying to hide his smile anymore, and the look of sheer fondness on Martin’s face is enough to make Jon avert his gaze. “If you wanted a lesson, you could have just asked, you know.”

Jon grumbles under his breath.

Martin’s eyebrows raise teasingly. “What’s that, love? Didn’t quite hear you.” He makes his way across the room and sits beside Jon on the bed.

Jon flushes even deeper. “I _said,_ it was supposed to be a surprise. You- you made me that lovely jumper last week, Martin, _and_ you’re the one always going out to the shops and all that, and I just-”

“Oh, Jon.” Martin’s hand comes up to cup Jon’s face, gentle and warm, and Jon can’t help but lean into it. “You know you don’t have to do that, right? Not because you- not as _repayment._ ”

“I know,” Jon says. It tastes like a lie, but he tries to believe it, he really does. Martin’s hand slips away from his cheek and Jon very nearly chases its warmth, but it resettles a moment later at his waist and he relaxes. “I just wanted- You, you deserve nice things, Martin.”

Martin takes a moment to speak, and when he does, his voice is unbearably soft. “I have _you,_ Jon. _This_ -” He presses a kiss to Jon’s temple- “Is already more than I ever dreamed I could have. _You,_ ” he says, with that unadulterated tenderness that Jon’s still not even a little bit used to, “are the _nicest thing._ ”

Jon’s eyes are watering just a bit by the time Martin is finished. His throat feels raw and the yarn lies forgotten in his hands as he says, “Martin-”

Any other words he might have said stick in his throat, and Martin just smiles like he’s heard what Jon is saying anyway. A few quiet seconds pass where Jon just looks at Martin, marveling over the fact that Martin _loves_ him, loves _him,_ and he gets to _keep_ this. Then Martin asks, “Can I kiss you?” and Jon’s heart swells even more in his chest. Afraid of what his voice will sound like, he simply nods.

The kiss is as gentle and sweet as their first, close-mouthed and soft but firm. Martin brings his hands up to cradle Jon’s face and threads his fingers into his hair where it’s escaped his bun, and Jon slides his hands, still hopelessly tangled in yarn, up to Martin’s sides.

When they break apart, Jon gives a happy little sigh. “I love you,” he says. Martin smiles as Jon’s hands make their way up to his shoulders, pulling up a mess of navy blue with them and giving off the vague impression that Jon is holding up Martin’s strings like a marionette. That’s not an association he likes much, and he pulls his hands back into his own lap. “I love you,” he repeats, “and… I think I’d very much like a knitting lesson.”

Martin laughs at that, loud and bright. It might be Jon’s favorite sound in the world, he thinks. He had been so sure, for a while, that it was a sound he wouldn’t be hearing again. “Sure,” Martin says. “I’ll teach you, tonight. But let’s have dinner first, yeah?”

Jon nods as Martin gets up. “How do you feel about lasagna? I was thinking of making some, just as soon as I’ve,” he glances down at the pile of wool on his lap, “sorted this out.”

“Ooh, yes please.” Martin throws a bemused look at the mass that is doing its best to be at least partly scarf-shaped. “ _Lovely_ color, by the way.”

“It’s yours,” Jon admits. “I didn’t know where else to get yarn.”

“Yeah, I thought I recognized it.” Martin smiles. “Good choice.”

And then he walks out of the room toward the living room, leaving Jon with the sort of tight ache in his chest he’s come to associate with Martin, lovely and warm and not altogether unlike the feeling of his arms.

* * *

Martin does end up teaching him how to knit, after dinner and more than a few minutes spent warm and wrapped up in each other’s arms on the sofa. It comes a bit easier under Martin’s tutelage, although Jon still drops what feels like every other stitch and gets laughed at and gently chided a few times when he tries to See what steps he’s forgotten. Eventually, long enough later that the winter chill has already started to creep into the cabin, Jon has a slightly misshapen but presentable scarf for his troubles, which he wraps carefully around Martin’s neck before they go out. Martin is nothing short of delighted.

**Author's Note:**

> I'll be honest, I wrote this fic for the sole purpose of hyping myself up to write something much longer for JM, because I just can't get enough of these boys and all the softness they deserve. Hope you enjoyed it, and hopefully I'll be writing them more soon! :)


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